


sense yellow

by kingcael



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Crying, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Scottish Honeymoon, nail-biting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:08:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22290520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingcael/pseuds/kingcael
Summary: Set during MAG160. A series of scenes to inspire a poet.Martin writes poems based on what he sees. Right now, he sees Jon.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 34
Kudos: 208





	1. Chapter 1

Jon did sing.

It wasn’t something Martin would have ever anticipated, though every time he heard even the slightest hum, he’d pause to see if it would turn into a song. More often than not, it would be a trite little melody, usually when Jon was doing chores. The most he had heard words was an actual ‘dum-dee-dum’ while Jon was folding the towels.

The first time Martin heard an actual snippet of a lyric, Jon was washing dishes. 

There was a dark spot on his shirt (Martin’s shirt) where he must have splashed himself and soap suds down his right forearm. Martin’s presence was still unsubstantial, he wafted through rooms like the ghost they were sure occupied Daisy’s cottage, and if he didn’t announce his presence, oftentimes Jon wouldn’t notice him. Even with his Sight. 

Martin watched for a time, amused at the errant strand of hair that fell across Jon’s forehead. He knew if he waited just a moment longer— Jon went to sweep the strand away and got soap on his forehead. The pout of annoyance that furrowed Jon’s forehead brought a smile to Martin’s lips, and he almost spoke when Jon began humming again. 

After a moment, under his breath, something that sounded like a folk song. 

“He’s graceful and he’s charming… like the lilies in the pond…”

Martin was absolutely certain that his heartbeat was audible, but he lurked by the table, watching as Jon lazily wiped a plate. The way he sang wasn’t performative in any way, it completely matched the gentle sounds of the dishes, the shine of the sun coming through the west window that caressed the edges of his form. Dust motes spun in the air from the occasional gust of fresh air, dancing around Jon’s head like the plainest halo.

“Time is flowing… swiftly by… of him I am so… fond…” If there was music to accompany, he was sure Jon would be missing the beats, and his voice was timid but pleasant. Martin couldn’t deny he had always been attracted to Jon’s voice, not even romantically at first, though that soon blossomed after the softer way Jon spoke to him after his first statement. There was a certain gravitas to Jon’s voice, especially for someone who tended to be a man of few words. Martin was past the point of being embarrassed by his attraction now, but it did make him smile at his past self sitting outside the door of Jon’s office, listening to him record a statement under the pretence of keeping up with the files.

“The roses and the daisies… they bloom around the spot…” Here, Jon took a breath, not quite finishing the note of spot, and Martin felt such a surge of affection he placed a hand on his own cheek, half covering his uncontainable smile. This was the honey coloured daydream Martin had tried to capture in his poems. Writing of love and longing, of the truest red romance. He had once thought that it was all in grandiose gestures, of stepping over thresholds together, kissing beneath fireworks, and the bright loud exhilaration of half-shouted declarations of love. The celebratory and the bold and the new. 

Now, admiring the shine of the golden sun gleaming off a wet bowl in the dish rack, watching Jon’s fingers plunge down into soapy water, the way Martin’s shirt hung loose off Jon’s shoulder, revealing the wiry curve of his neck, it occurred to him that his love was found here in the mundane. Here, in the tiny cottage, every soft surface covered with blankets to keep the chill off, it felt like building a nest. The Polaroids tacked to the wall by the front door were cautionary, proof of identity, but they did double to make the place seem more theirs. 

Here in the dust and the dusk, he realized his love was yellow instead of red. 

He felt the cloak of the Lonely fall away, and felt immediately more solid. 

“Where we parted, when he whispered—“ Jon stopped, and turned, his cheeks warm. “Oh, Martin.” His voice was as soft as his singing, and his eyes were bright. “I… I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry,” Martin said, stepping across the creaky hardwood to approach Jon from behind. “I was listening.”

“Were you,” Jon asked flatly, clearly trying to sound annoyed but failing as Martin’s arms wrapped around his waist.

“I was,” Martin said, swaying just a bit. Jon joined him for a moment, before bending lower over the sink to scrub vigorously at the frying pan. Martin laughed, holding on tight like he was trying to wrangle a rampaging bull as Jon overdramatically scoured last night’s dinner from the pan. After a moment, they were both laughing, and the sound made Martin’s heart glow. 

“Jon, I see you,” Martin sighed, nuzzling between Jon’s shoulderblades. “I see you, Jon.”

“Martin, I see you. I see you, Martin,” Jon answered.

—

Martin had always been the type to wake up with the sun, even more so now that his bedroom had a window that allowed it. His flat he spent the last few months in was a Lukas design, and the bedroom felt like an underground bunker, with no windows to speak of. Daisy’s cottage had a generous amount of windows, and the room they shared had one behind the ornate white metal headboard, and one off to the right side of the bed that overlooked an enormous gorse bush that had nearly overtaken the entire north side of the cottage. 

Even without the lover’s touch of the sun on his cheek, Martin might have been shaken awake by the deep rumbling vibrations of Jon’s snoring. If he didn’t know better, Martin would swear that Jon was putting on a caricature of snoring for the way he pressed his face into Martin’s back and sawed logs. There was the dampness of drool too, just another thing that had quickly become his normal. With a smile on his lips, Martin blinked himself fully awake, shifting his legs to try to extract himself from Jon. Jon reacted exactly as he always did, his lanky limbs tightening around whatever part of Martin they could reach. Like an octopus. Martin chuckled to himself, in disbelief at how clingy Jon could be. 

Right now, Jon’s left arm was draped over Martin’s side, his hand pressed into the soft curls on Martin’s chest. His right arm was underneath Martin’s pillow, and the light from the morning sun caught all the angry edges of his scars. Martin stared at them for a long time, flitting scraps of poetry tumbling through his mind. The words were like vapour, his mind filled with a fog that the morning sun hadn’t burned off yet. Something there. Something with the morning sun… fog… lonely fog… I see the morning sun. I see you. 

Martin yawned, wiggling closer to the edge of the bed to try to swing his legs out. Both Jon’s legs were intertwined with his own, and they instinctively tightened as Martin tried to escape. 

A noise of protest, and the sleepiest of kisses on his back. Sleepy kisses. Another snippet of a poem. Sleepy kisses, the first thing you think when you wake up is that you love me. Jon’s long fingers pressed into Martin’s chest, swirling and petting his chest hair, before they stilled and Jon resumed snoring. 

Martin remained in bed a bit longer. 

He thought of himself in bed a few months ago, how he would run his hand absentmindedly across his own chest and face, angling his arm in such a way and distancing his mind from what he felt so that he could pretend it was someone else. He faked domesticity with himself every night, and felt the Lonely pull him closer every time his eyes dried. He had gotten to the point where he could detach so completely that his hand did actually feel like someone else. The thought of his loneliness didn’t shake him as much now. The pale grey and blue couldn’t pierce the golden light that illuminated their bedspread. 

Their bedspread was a thick quilt with embroidered flowers on every other square. According to Jon, Daisy had received it as a gift from her paternal grandmother, who made all the grandchildren quilts upon their completing school, and Daisy had cherished it always, only setting it on fire once by accident. The Knowledge that Jon could use seemed fairly random, but he was getting much better at actually using it intentionally. 

Jon gave a particularly loud snort, and murmured something that Martin couldn’t quite catch, with another kiss in his drool spot. A bit gross, if Martin didn’t find it so endearing. Maybe that was part of it, honestly. 

With a sigh, Martin readjusted, rolling in place so he could get a look at Jon, who was solidly asleep and had completely abandoned his own pillow in favour of Martin’s. Affection hit Martin square in the heart again and he felt joyfully solid, which in turn made him aware of the wet spot on his back. For a moment, the sun fell across Jon’s face, sparkling on his dark skin like the finest dusting of gold. His stubble was five days on now, enough for each hair to glisten in the pure sunlight. The way the light pooled across his skin deepened the shadows of his scars and the permanent tired bruising around his eyes, making him look less young. Another noise of protest, and his eyebrows twitched closer together. Cute. 

Gently, Martin cradled Jon’s cheek, shading his eyes from the sunlight. “Jon, I see you. I see you, Jon.”

The barest hint of his voice, chasing a long exhale without opening his eyes. “Marto… s’you. S’you, Mar…”

“Good enough,” Martin whispered, kissing Jon’s cheek, then both his eyebrows, his nose, and then his lips. “Sleep in as long as you like.”

Jon made vague motions of kisses, before his mouth dropped open and sleep took him again, a snore wheezing through his nose. There wasn’t any way to fluff that up into poetry, and yet, somehow the reality of it gave Martin pause. 

His bed… their bed. Jonathan Sims. Distant and snappish Jonathan Sims. The memory of that man in his pressed green suit, before the weight of the Institute broke him down to bits and when he put himself back together he was softer than before. If recovery was a winding road, it seemed to Martin that Jon had been walking in the ditch the whole time. Martin had always been guilty of setting himself on fire to keep everyone else warm, a trait he was sorry to see they both shared. They also seemed to burn everyone else around them, and now all they could do was burn together. 

Co-dependency was something Martin wanted to avoid at all costs, knowing how terrible it was to put all his eggs in one basket when the one holding it liked… omelettes? The metaphor was getting away from him and his thoughts were getting scrambled. 

At that, he laughed to himself, and decided to make eggs for breakfast.

—

“The rook is back,” Jon said, as a good morning. 

Martin turned from the front window where he had been nursing a lukewarm cup of tea. Jon was using his cane this morning and had Martin’s dressing gown on. They had thrifted a few things at the secondhand shop in town, and they both took a shine to the blue grey velvet dressing gown, though it was certainly made for someone more Martin’s size so it was unofficially his. 

“Is he? Probably wants more peanuts, the devil.”

“He does.” Jon winced as he put weight on his left leg, joining Martin at the window and leaning on him. Martin wordlessly and seamlessly supported Jon, running his hand over his back and trying not to count every rib as he passed over them. 

“Do… do you Know that?”

“No, but that particular squawk of attention demands peanuts, I’m sure of it.”

“Tea on the back bench then?”

“Please.”

Jon uneasily made his way to the back door, pausing for a moment to grab his cigarettes, flashing an apologetic smile Martin’s way before heading outside.

Obviously Martin encouraged him to quit, though he wasn’t sure what sort of effect carcinogens would have on an Avatar of Awful Knowledge or whatever. He did have to admit he loved the scent of cigarette smoke and mint gum, mixed with the spicy smell of Jon’s deodorant. And for now, having a cigarette or two throughout the day did seem to calm Jon’s nerves, which, while healing, were completely shot to hell. 

Martin looked out the south window alongside the back door, and saw the usual curl of smoke from near the front bench. Harebells grew with reckless abandon near the bench, and some other scrubby bushes Martin couldn’t identify at a glance. Jon liked to sit there and look over the fields and rolling hills, already acting like an old retired man. With a smile, Martin filled the kettle, musing on the idea of scent and smoke and steam. Jon’s aura, wafting around him, something that honestly hadn’t changed much in all the time Martin knew him, which was a reassuring constant, especially after all the damage to Jon’s body. 

Again, Martin looked out the window, fully aware of how paranoid he was about Jon, and fully not caring if it made him a worrywart. Satisfied when he saw the smoke, he placed the kettle on the stove, and also went about preparing some porridge.

His routine fell a little differently now than when he lived with his mother. He still woke up first, still prepared tea and porridge, still cut up fruit and dusted it with sugar, still got the required medicines, put it all on a tray. But now he did all that with the knowledge that all of that effort would be received with a smile, instead of a scowl. Not that he minded Jon’s scowls years ago. In fact, he’s sure he found a familiarity in them. 

Jon had felt terribly about how he had acted, and it all came gushing out of him a few days ago after he stood too quickly and fainted, crashing to the floor. 

Martin actually yelped in surprise at the sound of Jon’s cane clattering to the floor and the echoing slap of Jon’s arm against the coffee table as he fell. There wasn’t even a moment of silence before Martin had launched himself out of the armchair and was dithering at Jon’s side.

“No… no... it’s fine, Martin, really. It happens all the time,” Jon said, hissing in pain as he tried to straighten his left leg. He was wedged between the couch and the coffee table, and it took some effort to sit up. “You’d think I’d be marginally better at falling now.”

“You know, just because you’re used to something doesn’t mean it’s okay,” Martin said, his voice gentle, and his hands gentler.

Jon stared at him for a long moment, with his back against the coffee table, and his eyes were wide. He swallowed, though it looked difficult, and when he spoke again, his voice was as shaky as his legs. “I am sorry, Martin. For… for everything. There’s… there’s no excuse for how I spoke to you. Even if you were used to it. I’m sorry.”

Martin paused, his hands on Jon’s back and under his knees. The rook outside gave an impatient call, and Martin held Jon’s gaze evenly. 

“We aren’t the same people we were then. How am I supposed to fault you now for then, when I know you’d fight yourself for saying those things?”

“Still, it’s- I remember saying it. God, I… I was such an ass.”

“Emphasis on the ‘was’, Jon. We’ve got enough to carry, okay, don’t drag that along too. I’ll acknowledge that you were unkind, but hear me when I say that I know that you’re not that person anymore. Or, well, you are, but you’ve grown.”

Jon was quiet, his cheeks warm, and his gaze cast down and away. 

“Hey…” Martin touched Jon’s chin, tilting his face back up, and Jon hesitantly met his eyes, his eyebrows drawn together and his expression was apology and regret and sorrow and _guilt._ Words seemed ineffectual when compared to how much sincerity there was in that expression. 

Martin kissed his cheek and forehead, before scooping him up. Jon didn’t even protest, instead burying his face in Martin’s neck, sighing out a shaky breath. With an ungraceful movement, Martin flopped the pair of them down on the couch, with Jon in his lap and simply held him. He apologized anyway, repeated whispers. He didn’t cry long, but kissed his own tears away from Martin’s neck. Salty probably.

Martin rubbed his neck as he thought about it, sprinkling brown sugar over the porridge. 

“Breakfast!” Martin called, shouldering the door open and stepping down the uneven concrete steps to the small patio. Jon looked up as he approached, stubbing out his cigarette in the heavy glass ashtray and stowing it under the bench. Hastily, he blew out his last lungful of smoke, waving the air around them. His smile was soft, and a gentle breeze tousled his hair, and Martin fell in love all over again. 

“Just fruit and porridge and tea, nothing special,” Martin said, sitting next to Jon and holding the tray on his lap. 

Jon’s smile didn’t falter, and he took the tea first, almost eagerly. His right hand shook, but steadied a bit when he took the mug. Martin wondered what sensation Jon had on his scarred hand, especially when he’d absentmindedly traced the swirling crevices and plateaus.

“You know,” Jon said, his voice slow and soft with the morning. “I did always love when you brought me tea.”

“Did you?” Martin asked, with good humour. “I always felt like I was nosing in, but I did get pretty good at timing the kettle to be done around the same time as your recordings.”

“It was… hmm… it was a nice reminder that I was a person, I suppose?” Jon took a long sip, somehow he could always drink scalding tea. “That… that someone cared. You did. You do. It’s reassuring. And I’m always grateful.”

Martin ran his thumbs over the handles of the tray, looking down at their feet. The flagstones beneath them were cool, but the sun was warm on the tops of their feet. Jon’s bare feet were long, thin, and bony, crossed at the ankles. It was another odd domestic moment. An archivist without his shoes on. Weird. He needed to clip his toenails. Domestic. Personal. Comfortable. Parts of Jon he’d never seen even though he’d known him for years. He wanted to romanticize it, something in the relaxed comfort, maybe it’s okay to be barefoot when you don’t have to walk on eggshells anymore. Hot coals? Something there. Hmm. 

Steam had been rolling off the porridge, but it had cooled enough that Martin nudged it towards Jon, who took it wordlessly. He made a noise of approval, swirling the brown sugar that had started to melt. 

“It’s good.”

“Right? Scottish oats, I think they’re better somehow? Maybe it’s the fresh air? Little brisk for me though.”

“I’ve liked everything you’ve cooked.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you cold? I’m a little chilly out here, I might grab a blanket.”

“That would be nice, I like it when you sit with me.”

Martin grinned, his happiness still tinged with utter disbelief that he was here, after everything that happened, and that Jon was saying things like that. He hurried inside and back with a blanket and their slippers, and by the time he’d returned, Jon had started on the fruit.

“Budge up there, make room for a fellow,” Martin said good-naturedly, placing the slippers on the flagstones before dramatically unfurling the blanket over both their laps. Out of habit more than anything, he gave Jon ample space, before Jon bridged the gap and pressed their bodies together, shoulder to foot. 

Jon’s cheeks were warm, and he crunched a yellow apple slice as he looked over the hills, finding Martin’s hand under the blankets.

Simultaneously, they sighed out a deep breath before looking at each other and laughing.

“Remember this,” Jon said softly, looking straight ahead. “Remember this and tell me about it if I ever get lost.”

Martin nodded, leaning his head on Jon’s shoulder. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of cool fresh air, only slightly tinged with cow smell, and focused on the warmth of Jon’s body next to him. “I see you.”

“I see you, Martin.”

—

Martin loved caring for other people. It was ingrained in him now, his first impulse to offer help, tea, a kind word. It wasn’t any different now, translating that sort of personality into doting love was simple. He had read somewhere that it was dangerous to put all your self-worth into something like that, since feeling ineffectual could completely destroy your self-esteem. But he did it anyway.

Though now he had tempered it with enough self-awareness to know when and how he should offer himself up. Offer your arm to someone, don’t let them break it. 

Offer your heart to someone, even if they might break it?

Struggling to put the words down right. 

Loving Jon was easy. Simple. He’d loved him for years. Being loved by Jon challenged him a bit more. Part of him was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. To crunch all those eggshells…? 

He made a note.

It comes down to the quiet. 

Martin tapped the journal on his knee with the eraser of his pencil, wondering if he should try to erase this page or just tear it out. He was as rusty at writing as he was at speaking. Fortunately Jon didn’t seem overly talkative either. They both seemed to relish the quiet, as long as they were together. Spending quiet moments with Jon and practicing talking made going outside easier. Made going to the shop easier. He made small talk with people again instead of fixing them with sullen glances. 

He had stopped saying thank you to people when the Lonely had him, and he hated himself for it. He made a point now to thank every clerk he chatted with in the village, and even found himself forging a friendship with the apple cheeked old woman who worked at the grocery. Meaningful friendships were few and far between for him now, and it was encouraging to look to the future. 

Jon was sleeping again. A pretty normal thing for him to do, apparently, napping before bed. He was spooning a pillow on the couch, and clutching at it the same way he clutched at Martin. Bad dreams probably. Martin sensed the Eye in the room, knowing someone was watching. There was a pretty big web in the corner of the sitting room too and it was foggy outside. Their quiet peace broken by Unknowable Horror creatures. He wished he could just clear them out of the room with a broom and a verse. 

“...was calling me.” 

Jon spoke suddenly, though from the glow behind his eyelids, it wasn’t the normal kind of sleep talking. More than once that glow had illuminated the bedroom like a dim nightlight, and Martin would catch the odd word from a statement as he held Jon through it. 

“Oh…” Martin closed his journal, hastily setting it and his pencil on the floor. Jon continued as Martin hurried to his side, sitting on the couch between Jon’s chest and knees.

“I don’t know how, but the tears came even faster now as I answered, sobbing with relief to hear him yelling at me for taking so long. Had I forgotten?”

“Jon-love,” Martin said, trying to tug the pillow from Jon’s grasp and replace it with himself. He hadn’t heard this one, but he knew what it was. “Let him go, let that one go.”

Jon’s hands tightened around the pillow, and his words got shakier. A tear leaked from behind his closed eyes and ran down his cheek into his ear. “Was I even planning to b-bother?” 

Martin managed to wrest the pillow away from Jon’s hands, which immediately latched onto Martin’s sweater, in that frantic desperate way he was sorry to say he was getting used to. The tendons and muscles in Jon’s neck stood out starkly from the lamplight behind Martin, and he was nearly as frantic to smooth all Jon’s taut and tense lines. 

“I-I-I tried to reply to explain but all I could manage to say to get through the sh-shaking sobs was, _I love you._ ” Jon’s voice was taken by the statement, and it was soaking wet with tears. Those words in particular shook Martin. He knew that, of course. Just… ‘I love you’ wasn’t something Jon said easily. And hearing it through Jon’s sobs was… 

“I see you, Jon. Jon, I see you,” Martin said softly, leaning over Jon’s face as he stroked it, trying to coax him awake. The turquoise glow behind Jon’s eyelids. Flower petals… thin and soft and veins running through. The colour was fascinating, beautiful even, but knowing where that colour was coming from was nauseating. Beautiful ugly. But it was his Jon. His Jon, eldritch powers and all. 

“He went very quiet…” With an odd choking gasp, Jon startled, and his eyes opened, the bright turquoise blinding and Martin felt the words of his statement crowding his mind, worms and knocking and fear and sleeplessness and peaches. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Martin flung himself backwards, sliding off the couch and landing a bit harder than he meant to, banging his elbow on the coffee table. The pain of it jostled his statement away, though he could taste the peaches. 

Jon was completely still, his eyes glowing with a sickening radiance. Wincing, and holding one hand over his eyes, Martin felt around for Jon’s hand, and took it, kissing it over and over. “Let go, Jon. Let him go. Come back to me.”

Martin wasn’t certain of exactly how Jon’s dreams worked, just that he did tend to relive statements, and somehow the people he watched relived them too? He wanted it to be over. For… for both of them, honestly. He did wonder now, though, if he ought to have left him alone, let the statement end.

Right now, Jon laying flat on his back, not moving, hardly breathing. Like the coma. Or the not alive… thing. Coma thing. Martin felt a cold panic shivering up his spine, and it was all he could do to not just slap Jon awake. The fog pressed up at the window and Martin let out a small cry. 

“Jon! Jon wake up right now or I swear—“

Jon blinked, and the turquoise light was gone. 

“Wuhappend?” he mumbled, squinting blearily around before Martin tackled him with a kiss that was equal parts relieved and panicked. 

“You weren’t… I don’t know. I interrupted a statement.”

“Herman Gorgoli… I made him cry again.” Jon squinted at Martin, retrieving his glasses from under his pillow. “Martin, what’s wrong?”

“I… sometimes… sometimes when you go to sleep and you’re… dream walking or whatever, I just get scared that you’re not going to wake up, and it’s… it’s terrible.”

Jon’s expression softened, and he cradled Martin’s face in both his hands. “I’ll always find my way back to you.”

Martin closed his eyes, turning to kiss Jon’s burnt palm. “You’d better.”

“I see you, Martin.”

“I see you, Jon.”

—

Sense Yellow

MK Blackwood

Ask me anything about that colour, the colour of my heart

My heart, it beats in a different chest

On blue grey steps, emerald footprints, where we start

In our bed, he likes the left side best

Sleepy kisses, the first thing he thinks when he wakes

Is that he loves me, the first and last thing on his mind

Honey coloured daydream, smile and my heart shakes

Tell me the names of all the flowers, let the clocks unwind

There is nothing like the colour of his eyes

I’ll be a quiet place where he can run and hide

He told me I was his anchor, he’s in the skies

A boy holding on to a heart string, around his finger tied

Run through the gate of my rib cage

And I’ll slam it shut behind

It comes down to the quiet, without rage

Steps too gentle to crack an eggshell, a tiny cottage in my mind

His teeth on my lips, his fingers pressed to my skin

Pearls and petals, and touch and paper and soft

Shutters are opened, let the sun in

That light sets the fog ablaze, my heart is aloft

I spoke of streets and blossoms in the air, the softest hello

He read scraps I tore away from myself

I thought my love was red, but it’s yellow

It’s yellow

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Silence was often the third companion in the safe house, swelling to fill up the space between them, sometimes gentle, sometimes oppressive. 

Martin knew this would be a normal occurrence. Jon wasn’t someone who could ever be described as chatty, the statements didn’t count, those were someone else’s words, and as far as Martin was concerned, whatever voice came out of Jon’s mouth during the statements was not the same as his Jon’s. There was a gentleness to Jon’s tone when he spoke to Martin now. Like the soft honey centre of his heart spilled from the cracked walls he built around it. Sweet. Something like a rose amidst thorns if that simile hadn’t been done to death. 

After the Lonely, Martin found words… difficult. One poem, mediocre at best. A couple good lines. A tape recorder would manifest next to him whenever his pen stilled, and he smiled at it, but wouldn’t give it anything. He did wonder now, if Jon had anything to do with the tape recorders. Maybe they were a gentle nudge of interest from Jon about Martin’s well-being, without the actual words. 

Martin sighed, running his finger over the ridged plastic of the recorder, and it purred under his touch, the REC button pressing of its own accord.

“Oh… you want something, huh?” Martin said, affection lilting his quiet voice. He looked around, tilting his head and catching the distant thunder of Jon’s voice rumbling with the Vast in the other room. “We’re alone, right now.” Martin chuckled softly. “Well, you and me. You want some words from me?”

Martin picked up the recorder, holding it to his chest, bowing his head and pressing his lips to the cool edge. 

“Run through the gate of my rib cage, and I’ll slam it shut behind. I wrote that for you, Jon. Jonathan. Jonathan Sims.” Martin pressed the recorder to his chest, the same way he pressed Jon into him as they slept. “I love you, Jonathan Sims,” he whispered, the same secret he would kiss into the back of Jon’s neck every night. He had no idea if Jon ever heard it. 

It was hard to say it. He remembered the way he wielded his love like a weapon. So numb in the Lonely, he took a sick sort of pleasure pretending his love was past tense. The words that bludgeoned another hole in the wall around Jon’s heart. The Lonely laughed twice when he said it. Martin wanted to laugh too, if he could have done anything but watch as he pushed Jon further away. Always entertaining the thoughts of pushing someone away. Push your mother down the stairs, Martin, it’d be so easy. Just one push, and you’ll be alone. Push Tim, push Sasha, build up your persona of pleasantries until they think you’re so subservient and dull they’ll have no desire to befriend you. Push Jon, he’s so horrible to you anyway, he’s looking at you like that, and it’s not empathy, it’s pity, and his eyes are always so shiny. Pity at least is a desire to help. It’s not pity, it’s love. It’s love, and Jon is ripping apart his own rib cage and giving you the pieces, giving you every brick in his wall, stabbing himself in that golden beautiful heart, if it would help you. 

The Lonely had enfolded him in a stronger cloak of isolation, accepting him, encouraging him. Nausea, seasickness when he thought how he had delighted in the stricken look on Jon’s face when he rejected him. ‘Run away together.’ He laughed in his face. Where once those words would have filled his heart to bursting, the Lonely had drained him. Giving him the power to rip every crumbling piece of Jon’s walls away to build up his own, and leave Jon trembling, crying, he knew he had heard him crying after, alone, alone, alone. 

Alone.

Martin gasped, blinking rapidly as his tears floated in front of his face. They sparkled in the sunlight, swirling around one another.

“Jon,” he whispered, his fingers stiff and cold around the recorder. Was it playing back the sound of waves? Frozen in place, Martin cast his gaze around the room, trying to ground himself. The gleam of sunlight glazing hot white across the back of the tawny sofa, dust motes glittering in the air like sparks. The smell, old paint, dust, the earthy scents of an early frost turning the leaves orange. Fire, the firewood and the crumbling bark. His warm sweater, draped across the arm of the sofa, one sleeve half-way inside out, lounging there like an empty person. Jon’s notebook, his small set of watercolours, evidence of a person showing the absence of the person. The red and yellow and orange paints burned bright as Martin stared at them.

Water flooding across the floor and the furniture rocking like ships. Wood and nails and someone’s hand that built these things, remember that they’re not here and you’re alone. You’re so powerful when you’re alone. You’re the captain of the ship. Not to be loved is to be free, so cut loose all your anchors. Be free, be free, be alone.

“Jon, help…” Martin gasped, holding on to the tape recorder, his last lifeline as water lapped around his ankles, and just as quickly, his face and neck. All the tears he had cried for his loneliness, that’s why the salt and sea. Cry an ocean of tears and become small enough to drown in it. 

All the things he could look at, but nothing looking at him. Lonely.

Water. Changing warm to cool. Safe house to sea shore, and Martin was going to drown sitting in an armchair. Feed me or I will feed on you. Nothing will look at you, you’re alone, under no scrutiny. You’re free, isn’t it exhilarating? Watch it all turn to grey. You’re so in love with the Beholding, now watch. 

Martin gasped out a sob, water rushed in, water rushed out, his tears pulling the colour from his eyes. 

A door opened and the Archivist who opened it stared at the room full of ocean, the furniture four feet off the floor. 

Was the Archivist angry or scared? Either way the Lonely would feed. If there was someone sitting in that armchair, the Archivist would never know. Everything was grey. The eyes of the man the Archivist loved were empty, filmy with salt and grey, mouth fleshed over, hair swirling as he drowned, not white or grey, just the absence of colour, and-

And the Archivist looked at him anyway.

Coughing out seawater onto a perfectly dry carpet. Hands cramped around a tape recorder, and blinking the blue back into his eyes. 

“Jon, I see you. I see you. I love you,” Martin sobbed, his eyes wide as their gazes locked and seawater gushed down his chin.

“I see you,” Jon said, his voice resonant. Static crackled around the tape recorder, echoing one last rush of waves as the Lonely fled. He cradled Martin’s head in his hands, not breaking eye contact. “I see you. You’re not alone.” 

The kiss was light, tentative and timid as Jon always was with his kisses. Martin knew how salty it would be and prayed Jon could kiss away the taste. 

He did, with care and attention, peppering kisses over Martin’s cheeks and nose and chin and forehead until Martin laughed weakly. 

“I see you, Martin.”

“I see you, Jon,” Martin replied, finally letting go of the tape recorder as it clicked off.

—

The tiny set of watercolours in Jon’s bag intrigued Martin. He had the vague notion that they were sentimental, extremely old, but he couldn’t recall actually talking to Jon about it. The case was cracked, and the plastic handled brush inside was dented and had a piece of yellow tape holding it together. If he hadn’t also found a postcard sized watercolour paper book, he would have assumed the paints were only sentimental. Upon closer inspection, he did notice the brands and age of the tiny tubes of paint were all different, so Jon must have cobbled it together as he ran out throughout the years.

Martin desperately wanted to look in the book, some of the paper had that telltale warping that meant there was something to look at. What would Jon paint? The question kept rattling around when it was silent, and Martin was sure he thought it loud enough that if Jon could read minds he would have answered. 

The afternoon was pleasant, the sun shining to spite the breeze. They were pulling weeds out of the bush with blue flowers together, something that quickly wore Jon out, and it didn’t take very much wheedling for Martin to coax him to rest. 

Jon sat on the rough-hewn bench he liked to eat breakfast on, massaging his leg and staring intently at a tiny daisy. He turned it from side to side, his eyes tracking over the form of it as if he were counting the petals.

“He loves me, he loves me not?” Martin smiled, and Jon turned his attention to him, catching Martin off guard yet again with the soft fondness of his expression. 

“Oh, just… there’s lots of daisies, I’d- hmm…”

“Hmm?” Martin prompted, digging his fingers down the root base of a particularly nasty weed, hissing a bit at the chilled dirt below. 

“I like them,” Jon said simply. “They’re… cute.”

“You’re cute.”

“Am not.”

“He said, cutely, with a cute expression, with cute sweater paws.”

Jon scowled, pointedly pushing his sleeves up before turning his attention back towards the daisies, running his scarred fingers over the white petals. With a smirk, Martin gave one last heave on the weed, and it came loose, and he fell back in surprise. Jon considered him for a moment, before getting up and standing over him.

“Cute.”

Martin stuck his tongue out, dusting the dirt off his chest and tossing the weed into the heap beside the step. As he got to his feet, Jon offered his hand, and Martin admired the knobbly bony structure of Jon’s hand contrasting wildly with his sturdy thick hand. Something there. Loveliness in contrast. He had imagined more than once how they might look from the door of their bedroom with Jon draped over him, long limbs tangled around Martin’s body like he was trying to tie them together. He hadn’t expected Jon to be such a clingy sleeper, but it was a welcome surprise. Even the snoring and the drool. 

When Jon cupped his face and leaned in to kiss him, Martin imagined again how that might look from an outsider’s perspective. Anyone walking down the lane would be able to see them clear as day, and if that bothered Jon at all, he wasn’t giving any indication now. Jon truly seemed to enjoy kissing, though Martin was always surprised by it, after years of pining. He had gotten so used to speculating what it might be like to love and be loved by Jon that when Jon was so giving and generous with his affections, every time felt like the first time. Kiss. And another. And one more. After Jon’s first few kisses, he grew bolder, sweeter, threading his long fingers through Martin’s curls and deepening the kiss. 

Martin sighed into the kisses, pulling Jon close, running his hands up and down his back and trying not to count his ribs. More kisses. More. And more until Martin’s cheeks were bright pink and they were both nearly breathless. Jon smiled, that weak little broken thing, and rubbed their noses together. Quick little kisses across Martin’s cheek, into his hair and one on his ear before he whispered gently.

“I see you, Martin Blackwood.”

Later that night, after they had finished reading aloud from the frankly terrible yet highly entertaining Highlander themed romance novel, Martin was dozing on the sofa, long blinks turning into brief drops into slumber and bouncing back out. Jon had been silent for a long time, and Martin would have assumed he’d fallen asleep too if not for the lack of snoring and Jon’s fingers swirling lazily through Martin’s chest hair. He figured it calmed Jon, maybe like petting a cat would. 

A soft sigh coasted from Martin’s lips, and he closed-eye smiled, massaging a circle into Jon’s waist and murmuring tiny kisses in his direction. Jon met his kisses, soft lips framed by prickly stubble. As Jon withdrew, Martin raised his head, still kissing the air as he chased Jon’s kisses. 

“Rest, Martin…” Jon said, his voice warm, familiar, though he did acquiesce one more kiss. 

He didn’t go far, as it turned out, his knees crunching and cracking as he settled to sit on the floor between the sofa and coffee table, and began rustling something. 

Martin cracked one eye open, and noticed Jon had opened his watercolours. Oh. Respect for Jon’s privacy, and the tempting lull of sleep pulled Martin away, warm and comfortable. 

Strange dreams, floating away, falling apart, flying above, all drawn back to the central point of the feeling, magnetically drawn to the blurry image of the curve of Jon’s shoulder, the silver shine in his hair above his ear, the straight hard edge of his glasses, the strong angle of his nose, those lips, those lips he loved. 

Words jumbled, how to describe a person’s lips in a literal sense, when all you can think about is how they feel against your own. How it doesn’t contradict what you thought, just adds colour and depth and a warm and wet reality to the thought, you didn’t think so much of a kiss would be in the smell. Something distinctly  _ him. _ So many ways described, it comes down to that. You know what they mean when they say it, it’s just difficult to articulate what that smell is. It’s love, you know that, but you can’t describe your love to another. There’s no words for that, even though you’re looking for them. You want to give them as a gift. He loves words, he loves you, if only you could explain to him in words exactly what your heart and brain and eyes and hands and body does when he leans in close to let you taste him again. It’s frustration in the kindest sense. I love you so much it aches, because my body doesn’t know what else to do when all my nerves fire at once from the gentlest touch. 

Martin wasn’t sure what woke him, but being awake was sudden, and the awareness that his hands were cold and the rest of him was bed warm was uncomfortable. He was alone in the living room, but the glow from the kitchen was yellow. 

Rain tapped on the windows, the sky outside was steely and blue grey, clouds covering up the sunset.

Sighing out a deep breath, he rolled a bit and saw that Jon hadn’t put his watercolour book away. Instead, it was propped up against the ugly flower vase, and the golden light from the kitchen fell across the still drying paint.

As he stared at the painting, a drop broke away from a leaf, pulling green pigment in a straight line down onto the table. Martin didn’t know much about watercolour, though he was sure that generally they were meant to be dried flat, so the positioning of the painting could only be on purpose.

Flowers. The same ones that bloomed doggedly on the south side of the house by the daisies. Hydrangeas? Martin had studied flower language years ago, keen to use them properly in poems, to maybe arrange a bouquet for Jon to secretly confess his love. He couldn’t recall what hydrangeas stood for, but the way the book was positioned, that it was open at all, the image sat there like a bouquet for him, confessing love even in ignorance of the meaning.

He vaguely recalled it might not have been a good meaning, so he made up his own.

Gift.

Simple, easy, pretty. 

Warm cheeks, he put his cool hands on them and followed the lines of the petals, the part where they got a bit blurry. The flowers weren’t masterful, but lovely all the same, the swirls of blue and green weren’t solidly depicting each petal, but the way they blended together was beautiful. 

He sat up slowly, muzzy with sleep, and certain his hair was showing it. Jon’s jumper- well, technically Martin’s, though he was discovering the depth of the clothes theft now that they lived together- slid down his chest, and he held it, squinting blearily into the kitchen.

There was the slightest sound of dishes clanking together, the occasional rush of water, and in between, the gentlest humming. All of the noises were done with the obvious intent to be quiet, and Martin’s heart did that weird ache again. 

He pressed the jumper into his chest, taking a deep breath and angling himself just enough so he could see Jon bent over at the kitchen sink. Jon seemed perfectly content to do the dishes every day, just like he didn’t protest at all when Martin insisted on making breakfast and hourly tea. 

Martin glanced at the painting again, and then back to Jon, and the ache in his chest throbbed, and the lump in his throat made it hard to swallow, or talk, or breathe. He wasn’t even sure what his heart was doing, just aching and confused, and tears started to well up. 

Jon fumbled a dish and hissed a little curse, hastily righting it and turning around to see if he’d been too loud when the tears overflowed. 

“Ah,” Jon stammered out some noises, drying his hands quickly and hurrying over to Martin’s side. “Martin, Martin, what’s the matter?”

Martin shook his head, a few breaths juddering out of his mouth. Tears kept flowing, crawling ticklishly through his beard and he wiped them away, feeling ridiculous. 

“A nightmare? Martin… please, what is it?”

“It’s… it’s stupid,” Martin said, wiping his eyes over and over. 

“Martin, you’re not stupid. What is it?” Jon was close, with that honey softness in his voice, his hands hovering between them, still unsure if his touch would hurt or help. Doting, even, and the notion made Martin cry harder, the feeling of ridiculousness layering evenly over his confused lovesick aching. Whatever grasp the Lonely had on him was all but non-existent in the moment, and all the pining and loneliness and love he had repressed for the last few months seemed to hit him all at once. He brought the jumper up to his face, using it both to hide and to wipe away his tears. 

“I’m- it’s stupid- I don’t- I don’t-“ If he had to place a description to the sound he made next, it would be ‘boo-hoo-hoo’ and he cursed himself for getting so completely overcome. How to make something poetic out of that blundering sound, you don’t. 

“It’s- not- not stupid, Martin-love, just- ah. I’ve got you then, I’ve got you.” Jon finally made contact, kneeling beside the sofa and pulling Martin into a clumsy embrace. “Take all the time you need, I’ve got you. You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

There wasn’t anything unique in Jon’s platitudes, except that they were words Martin had never been on the receiving end of before, at least not in such a significant way. He absolutely knew Jon meant it. He could cry for hours, and Jon wouldn’t leave him, the dishwater could go cold and dry up, and still Jon would be with him. 

That thought didn’t help him calm down, and he frantically grabbed at Jon’s arms, moving to instead press his face into Jon’s neck, breathing him in, concentrating on the warmth of his skin, the hummingbird vibration of his heartbeat. 

How could something as simple, as positive as the idea that he was okay, that he was loved, how could that elicit such a response? It was too new, especially with the weight of the truth about his mother bludgeoned into his mind. 

No one ever loved you, Martin Blackwood. Not one person in your entire life, and that was where you were comfortable, because it was familiar. Part of your love for the Archivist was rooted in a hope it would never be reciprocated. 

“I- I- I never expected you- you to love me,” Martin said, knowing for a fact that his nose was running now by the thickness of his voice. “I really really didn’t.”

Jon was quiet now, just holding Martin, though his heart pounded. Martin could feel it in his lips, pressed gently to Jon’s throat. 

“I do,” Jon said eventually, barely more than a whisper. “I- I love you so much, I-“ He sighed, his hands running symmetrically up Martin’s arms and wrapped around his head. Sounds of kisses in curls. “I love you.”

After another few moments of silence, Martin pulled away, enough to realize his face was wet, Jon’s neck was wet. He sniffed, and the sound was ugly, and he grimaced. Before he could move away, Jon gently moved his hands to cradle his face, tilting his chin up to meet his gaze. 

“Jon, I’m- I’m sor- I’m gross, just-“

“Martin. Look at me.”

No compulsion, not this time, just a gentle request Martin followed.

“Tell me… tell me what you see.”

Martin looked. Jon. His Jon. Dark hair, dark eyebrows, bright eyes. Those bright green eyes had captivated Martin from day one, now was no exception. Now there was an otherworldliness to them, eyes that could see through, beyond, past any wall or barrier, and now their attention was focused solely on Martin. He had dreamed of one day being the focus of Jon’s attention, but now he knew how frightening that intensity could be, pinned down like a butterfly on a board. Except now his gaze wasn’t sharp, didn’t spear Martin through the heart, it was just a gentle request to take off his armour. 

“I see… my… my Jon.” A smile finally cut through the tension in Martin’s voice. 

“Yours,” Jon affirmed.

A little broken laugh broke from Martin’s lips. Relief, disbelief. “Mine.”

A kiss on the cheek. Somehow in the moment it was more romantic. Jon’s thumbs moving symmetrically to wipe away the tears, to raise Martin’s face up. 

Look up, look up. 

—

The words were coming easier to him, flowing out of his mind, running down the length of his arm and mixing with the ink from the cheap ballpoint pen to make even the grocery receipts sing with love. 

Jon hadn’t made any comment on the receipt poems, or inquired after Martin’s poetry, though he certainly knew it was being written. Maybe he still remembered the last time he asked, and Jon was the type to be once bitten, twice shy. 

While Martin wrote, Jon was in the garden, busying himself with gathering leaves to cover the roots of the plants around the cottage. Going outside, even for a short while had quickly become part of Jon’s daily routine. He had said something about weathering the winter, with a low softness to his voice. It didn’t take mind-reading powers for Martin to deduce that extended to the pair of them settling in the cottage for the winter, especially with the special shy smile Jon reserved only for him.

It was… odd to think about. Not like he had never imagined a snowy Christmas, with Jon showing up, looking shy and adorable with snow in his hair and a scarf Martin had knitted for him touching his face and lips the way Martin longed to. They’d spend a quiet evening drinking cider and getting cosy next to the fireplace, alone together since somehow everyone else couldn’t make it to the little party for whatever reason. The lights would sparkle in Jon’s eyes and he’d smile in that special way, and they’d lean in—

Martin blushed, covering his face in embarrassment at his past self for indulging that fantasy on more than one occasion. 

A movement from outside made Martin jump, tapping the end of his pen against his notebook, before he calmed when he saw it was only Jon crossing in front of the large front window. He watched him. 

Jon had purloined Martin’s favourite green sweater, to no surprise whatsoever, and it was overlarge on him, bunched around his elbows. Paired with his well-fitted black jeans on his long legs, his silhouette was distinctly uneven, like a tree had sprung to life and started doing yard work. 

On another crossing back and forth, Jon stumbled, and Martin recognized that particular stumble from years of seeing it in the Archives. With a quick glance, Martin spotted Jon’s cane, grabbing it and meeting Jon at the front door. 

“Oh, you saw…” Jon said, wincing a bit as he took the cane. His cheeks were a bit warm, from the autumn chill or pain, Martin wasn’t certain yet. 

“Come in, warm up, and I’ll give it a massage,” Martin said brightly, holding the doors and shutting them as Jon settled onto the sofa. With a flourish, Martin had draped the crocheted blanket he had been sitting on over Jon’s legs. “Pre-warmed, just for you.”

“Just for me, hmm?” The smile was audible in Jon’s voice as he arranged the blanket. 

“Yup, if it happened to be on my chair when I sat down and I got too distracted to move it, it’s a total coincidence,” Martin said, leaning over the sofa, his lips falling on the crown of Jon’s head. He lingered for a moment, breathing in the smell of the cheap shampoo they had been sharing mingling with the fresh earthy smell of the autumn and the slight bit of oils in Jon’s hair. “You smell good.”

“The eloquent first line in your next poem?” Jon said playfully, before snapping his mouth shut, looking down and away. “Ah… I mean… I don’t want to pry.”

“It’s okay, I’ve been… I’ve been trying. I wrote something okay the other day.”

“Good,” Jon said, his cheeks still warm. “That’s good. You- I’m glad.”

“It is good,” Martin said, motioning for Jon to lay on the sofa. “Did you want a painkiller for that?”

Jon shook his head, his mind clearly miles away, playing tapes in his head of something terrible he said before. 

“Want some lotion or do you wanna keep your trousers on?” Martin asked, navigating Jon’s tension with expert ease. Jon’s awkwardness and monosyllabic tendencies almost always were a result of self-flagellation, and Martin could see it plain as day. At least the cheerful acts of service scripts he had practiced for years with his mother had more pleasant continuations now. “I can warm the rice bag too, if you just want heat.”

“Martin.” Jon was kneading his fist into his leg, just above the knee, where Martin knew it hurt. It was a habit Martin understood, but wished he’d stop. Like Jon’s incessant fingernail biting, they were always worryingly short, and he knew for a fact Jon also tended to bite his cuticles off, though those always regrew now. He remembered a time in the Archives when Jon had unknowingly smudged an entire folder of documents with the blood from a massacred cuticle. Of course no one had said anything about it, Jon was only cross with himself.

Jon was biting the ragged fingernails of his right hand while pressing more pain into his leg, and seemed to be bracing himself to apologize. 

“Jon. We’ve got enough to carry, remember?” Martin said, guiding both Jon’s hands away from where he was channeling his anxiety through pain. “As far as I’m concerned, you apologized for the jab at my poems when you asked me how they were going.”

“But I- still- just-“ Jon made a frustrated noise, resorting to biting his lip as Martin held both his hands. “I really don’t like who I was, Martin.”

“I know. That’s okay. You’ve grown.” Martin bowed to kiss the top of Jon’s head again, drinking in the scent. “Hmm, you really smell good.”

Jon relaxed, squeezing Martin’s hands as he gusted out a sigh. “Lotion would be appreciated.”

A few moments later, Jon was stretched out on his stomach the length of the sofa, covered by the crocheted blanket. 

“Ready for lotion?” Martin asked, slipping his hands under the blanket to touch bare skin. 

Jon nodded, tapping his lips with his fingertips. Residual anxiety, but not destructive, so Martin let him be. 

Martin arranged the blanket to just uncover Jon’s left leg, his eyebrows twitching together when he beheld the nasty lumps of scar tissue. From behind the knee to halfway up Jon’s thigh, nasty thick scars made by worms and a knife and a corkscrew. He took a moment to warm the pain lotion in his hands, catching Jon’s eye and smiling. The smile was returned, and Martin got to work, his large hands pressing in gently and firmly, coasting over Jon’s skin. 

If nothing else, taking care of this particular scar felt like Martin’s duty, since he was the one that put it there. Indirectly, maybe, but it was his corkscrew that Sasha had been using with frantic zeal. She had turned five worms to pulp in Jon’s leg, yanking bits of them out with that damn corkscrew. Between the worms going in, and Sasha’s destructive eviction, and then even more worms finding their way to the open wound and out the other side later, there had been irreparable damage done to Jon’s leg. Sure, he healed partially, but his body was keen to keep a scar. Martin had hoped that the new healing powers might have mended it, but of course not, how could anything just be easy for Jon.

Sighing a breath out his nose, Martin spread his hands flat, curving around Jon’s thigh and summoning all he could remember from his brief interest in massage therapy. 

“Is everything alright, Martin?” Jon asked tentatively, his voice soft.

“Hm? Oh… just… just thinking about you.”

Jon’s mouth pressed into a line, and Martin quickly continued. 

“No! Not you… bad, just… just Eli- Jonah and all his stuff, just using you, laughing at all of us, making you hurt, and how you can heal, but you still have to hurt and I- I just wish I could kiss it better, you know?”

Jon was quiet for a moment, his green eyes studying Martin closely. That sort of scrutiny would normally make Martin uncomfortable, but he knew Jon’s gaze was studious, loving. Memorizing his face in case he ever had to gouge his eyes out. Dramatic maybe, but not at all out of the realm of possibility in their lives. 

“I do know, Martin.” 

“Mm,” Martin hummed, returning his attention to Jon’s leg, venturing higher with long slow movements, and his pinky finger slid underneath the edge of Jon’s underwear. “S-sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

Another long silence, before Jon spoke again.

“I like it… when you touch me.”

Martin grinned, wiggling his fingers over the scar. “Do you?”

“It’s… good. When… when the circus had me, it- it uh… wasn’t.”

Martin stared at his own hands, shiny with lotion, resting on Jon’s leg, visualizing him gagged and bound in a warehouse, glowering at his captors as they lurked in the shadows. Swinging lightbulb, mysterious crates, very film noir.

“Hmm… your hands are warm and soft. Completely different.”

“Jon…” Martin said, tentative, his voice a bit wobbly. “Do you… need to talk about it? I’m not… like a therapist or anything, but you know how people always seem kinda relieved after a statement?”

Jon was quiet for a long time, his eyes shut, and Martin’s knees started to protest his position knelt in front of the sofa. He creaked to a standing position, and Jon reached out and tugged on his shirt. With some adjusting, good natured grumbling, and the addition of the other blanket, they were comfortable, Jon draped over Martin like a lizard on a hot rock. 

With a sigh Martin couldn’t have imagined, Jon rested his head on Martin’s chest, nearly nuzzling, though he’d hiss at the word. Jon really was cute, as much as he’d protest it, undercutting his arguments with an adorable pout.

“It might… be nice to tell someone,” Jon said eventually. He was staring off into the middle distance, his face close to Martin’s, chin on his chest. His eyes were unnatural green now, cyan? No doubt a mark of a monster, but Martin appreciated how lovely they were all the same. They glowed in a subtle way, lighting Jon’s long eyelashes and brightening the purplish exhaustion ringing around his eyes.

“I can listen,” Martin said, wrapping his arms around Jon, cupping his head and running his other hand up and down his back. 

“It’s… I don’t know if I will feel better, and I don’t want to make you feel worse.”

“Hmm…” Martin droned, unsure what to say to that.

“It was lonely. I’m… I’m sorry if that’s- ah… seems insensitive to compare it to- well.”

“Just because the Fear God of Loneliness was digesting me doesn’t mean you can never use the word, you know.”

Jon chuckled, before continuing. “Lonely then, I didn’t know where I was, I didn’t know if anyone from the Institute knew where I was. Even… even the tape recorders abandoned me. Most of the time I was alone, and it was  _ cold. _ ” Jon wiggled himself closer to Martin, holding him tighter around the middle, banishing the chill. His voice was beginning to shake, losing steadiness as he reinserted himself into the memory. “I was gagged most of the time and handcuffed to this… pipe thing on the floor. They… they took my clothes. So when they lotioned me it was easier. I always kept my eyes shut-“ Martin observed Jon’s eyes were closed as he recounted, though he could still see the green glow behind his eyelids. “-and their hands… felt weird. Horrible. Cold plastic but waxy… like the plastic they make baby dolls out of, but slippery with the lotion and…” Jon visibly shuddered, and pressed his face into the centre of Martin’s chest, skewing his glasses. “The ringleader, Nikola… she told me every day how much fun she was going to have. You heard some of it, on the tape, but… that’s how I started marking days, assuming she’d come in once a day to tell me how she was going to skin me alive. She’d keep  _ touching _ me. Not looking at me, not really, she was looking at my skin. There wasn’t anything I could do, so I’d… I’d just close my eyes and let her get on with it, but the lotion was cold and the air was cold and her hands were cold and-“ His words had been speeding up, rushing across his tongue and clattering over his teeth in a disjointed mess. “And I just… just kept thinking about warmth. About a soft bed, a warm bath, a cup of tea. Your tea. That was consistent, if anything. You were always bringing me tea when I retreated into my… my happy place.” A fragile laugh, the sound plucking a heartstring. 

“Jon…”

“It’s… hmm… with everything else… it feels like I should just forget about it.”

“I’ve got you, Jon-love,” Martin said, wondering if more touching was hurting or helping at this point. “Keep talking.”

“You’ve got me,” Jon affirmed, with another brittle little laugh, like a twig snapping. Or a fine teacup shattering on concrete. Something nice, but broken. “I thought of you a lot.”

“Did you?”

“Before I really knew what I was feeling about you, there just wasn’t time… with… with everything. But I wondered if you… if you were missing me. I know I wasn’t around much then but if anyone was going to notice I was gone, it was you. I… I dreamed, hallucinated, I don’t know, that you were waking me up back in the Institute, like it was all a bad dream and I was asleep at my desk with dry skin.” Jon buried his face deeper in Martin’s chest, his voice muffled as he continued. “Or I’d dream, imagine that you were there, picking the locks with a corkscrew. That you and Tim and Sasha were all coming to rescue me. I really thought I heard your voices sometimes. I guess it must have been part of being trapped in the Stranger’s domain. Tim… he… he was nice to me… wishful thinking, I guess. I made up so many elaborate scenarios, of you three breaking in, coming to the rescue, you’d wrap me up in your warm flannel, and Tim and Sasha were fighting off mannequins, looking- looking all cool. And then I’d remember Sasha was-“ Jon cleared his throat. “I… I um…”

Martin swallowed, bowing his head to kiss the top of Jon’s head. 

“O-oh… I’m… ah, I’m going to… to cry,” Jon said, sounding both tearful and surprised. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to-“

“Jon, it’s okay. You can cry, you’re- you’re safe here.”

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” Jon repeated, in barely more than a whisper. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save them…” Jon’s shoulders shook and he clamped his bony hands to his face. More cries clamoured in his throat, scratching at his fingers and lips with sharp edges until he relented and they burst past where he was stifling himself. 

Martin held him, taken aback by how the sound of Jon’s sobs made his heart twinge with physical pain, while his brain was processing the sounds, the tears, the novelty of it with fascination. 

Martin slowly brought his arms around Jon, riding the waves of his shaking. After his own good cry the day before, it only made sense to reciprocate in kind.

“I’m sorry I- I don’t- You don’t deserve this,“ Jon choked out, trying to even out his breaths. He shuddered as his sobs had their way with his body, and turned his face to bury it in the middle of Martin’s chest, his hands sliding along Martin’s sides to grip his shoulders from behind. 

Tears began to prickle in Martin’s eyes as he simply held Jon silently, listening to what was quickly becoming the worst sound he could imagine. He began rocking him from side to side, completely at a loss for any other action. 

The long low wails, all Jon’s brain could offer as catharsis when there was too much sadness for his battered body to contain. All the pain and passion of a scream, tied down and muzzled by his sorrow. 

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Martin repeated, as Jon repeated apologies between breaths and sobs. 

Heartbreaking. Exquisite. The purity of his pain, debilitating his body, crystallizing and shattering all over Martin’s chest. Every scar cracking his skin, every painful memory slicing up his insides like spinning glass. 

And Martin held him, even though it hurt. Pushed all those pieces back together, knowing he could only do an imperfect job, but he would hold him as long as it took for Jon to stand again. He couldn’t fix it. He couldn’t take back everything that happened. He couldn’t erase any of the things that had been done to them. But he could hold the man he loved, and be held when he needed it, and even though neither of them were gratuitous with saying it, that was love. 

  
  


sense yellow ii 

MK Blackwood

The heart of you 

I would call it a garden

Because the stubbornness of your love

Grows like a weed in a pavement crack

I cried the colour out of my eyes

You were the opposite of me

Not to be loved is to be free

Adrift adrift

Until your anchor crashed through my chest 

A grappling hook

Salt and sea and sand and soil

You make things grow out of water

When the rain knocks on the front door

You greet it like an old friend

While I wait in the kitchen 

Kettle steam warming my face

Boo-hoo-hoo, no poetry

Your wails, the same

The sounds I make for you and the sounds you make for me

Kisses in curls, your fogged up glasses

We wipe our noses on each other’s shirts

I always imagined us being happy

One bottle of shampoo 

It smells different on you

You put the right amount of honey in my tea yesterday

  
  



End file.
